


Sweetheart

by 372259



Category: Never Have I Ever (TV)
Genre: Dark Benvi, F/M, possessive!ben
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:21:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26568712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/372259/pseuds/372259
Summary: Devi's life is a forever juxtaposition of past and present. She was sixteen when she first kissed Ben; she is twenty-one when he first pays her to sleep with him. She was sixteen when she put her father's soul to rest; she is twenty-one and her mother's life hangs over her head. She was sixteen when she broke Ben's heart; at twenty one she wonders if he ever had one at all.Dark Benvi fic. Possessive!Ben. Dark!Ben
Relationships: Ben Gross/Devi Vishwakumar
Comments: 10
Kudos: 49





	Sweetheart

**A/N:** I LOVE the dynamic between Ben and Devi, and truly hope they are end game in ' _Never Have I Ever'_. I wanted to write a fic that included their witty banter, competitive natures, and give lots of descriptions regarding all the wonderfully adorable ways Ben looks at her (Jared Lewinson is seriously rocking his role). BUT, instead, as per my MO, somehow this fic happened instead. Be warned, this fic is twisted and dark. I'm working on my own novel, and there's a character dynamic between two characters that needs to happen for plot purposes, but it's hard to write. SO this is essentially me practicing for them. Essentially, this version of Ben is more messed up from parental neglect, spoiled rich kid syndrome, high school benvi drama that I'll reveal eventually, and a couple of other hardships I'll be throwing his way. BTW these circumstances do NOT excuse his actions in this fic in any way, but they are part of why he's so OOC. By the end, you shouldn't like Ben, but you should sort of understand the factors that led to him being this way.

In case it hasn't been made abundantly clear, no, this fic is not for the soft-hearted. No, you will not like Ben (or at least, you shouldn't, even if by the end there will be an explanation of sorts for his OOCness). No, the bevi relationship portrayed here is not healthy. You have been warned. Also, the medical and legal/financial situations in this fic require a very prolonged suspension of disbelief.

 **FULL SUMMARY** :

Devi's life is a forever juxtaposition of past and present. She was sixteen when she first kissed Ben; she is twenty-one when he first pays her to sleep with him. She was sixteen when she put her father's soul to rest; at twenty-one, her mother's life hangs over her head. She was sixteen when she broke Ben's heart; at twenty one she wonders if he ever had one at all.

Dark Benvi fic. Possessive!Ben. Dark!Ben

 **PAIRINGS** : Ben x Devi (mostly one-sided)

 **WARNINGS:** Non-con (non-explicit), minor character death (no, not Nalini and Kamala), unhealthy relationships.

 **DISCLAIMER:** I do not own these characters, they are property of Mindy Kaling, Lang Fisher, and whoever else actually owns the rights to _Never Have I Ever_. The sweetheart definition I use is directly from Google Dictionary.

* * *

**SWEETHEART**

chapter one: duty & deals

* * *

_-Sweetheart-_

_(Noun)_

**_1\. a person with whom someone is having a romantic relationship._ ** _"the pair were childhood sweethearts"_

_-SIMILAR: used as a term of endearment or affectionate form of address._

_-SIMILAR: a particularly lovable or pleasing person or thing._

_**2\. INFORMAL - denoting an arrangement or agreement reached privately by two sides in an unofficial or illicit way.** "the government has long extended sweetheart contracts to corporations in exchange for services"_

* * *

_Duty._

It's only four letters, yet it is one of the heaviest words Devi knows. It's a responsibility and an obligation, it's a calling and an expectation. Maybe her Hindi is broken at best. And maybe her brand more closely fits carnivorous, spoiled, pop-culture-obsessed American teen rather than religion-abiding, traditional Hindu daughter. But still, Devi feels the weight of the portentous word in the same manner any first generation immigrant child does.

_Duty._

Her late father had taught her the unconventional meaning. ( _"You have a duty to yourself, kanna. To be happy, to pursue your dreams and aspirations.")_ But _,_ he'd taught her the conventional meaning too. ( _"Never forget your duty to your family. To love them unconditionally, the way that they love and protect you. Sometimes that will mean just being there for them, but sometimes it means sacrifice too.")_ And of course young Devi listened and latched, because she trusted her father more than anyone in the world.

Now twenty-one years old, Devi Viswakumar _should_ be celebrating her multiple interview invitations to twelve lauded American medical schools at a grotesquely overpriced, small portioned, but aesthetically breathtaking restaurant in Manhattan. She _should_ be playfully arguing over the best dessert options with Kamala, while her mother fondly rolls her eyes at them, reminding them that they might consider at least pretending to act like adults in public. Instead, Devi spends her Friday night in a sterile hallway slumped on a cold metal chair, waiting for someone in blue and bloodied scrubs to come out and tell her if she's an orphan.

She already lost her father. Maybe she was some sort of serial killer in a past life, and its some cruel poetic justice from fate to take her mother and cousin (read: sister) away from her too.

She's alone. She could call El or Fab, but she can't really think of anything right now other than the fact that her mother and Kamala are fighting for their lives a few dozen meters away from her in the operating room.

The hallway might be silent; her mind is not.

_'My fault, my fault, my fault.'_

It's closer to dawn than dusk by the time a tall red-haired woman in scrubs finally comes out of the OR suites, looking exhausted. She's not smiling. Instead, she gently guides Devi into a quiet room with a brown couch. And for second Devi is fourteen again, in a rumpled white dress shirt stained with tears and snot, shaking in Sherman Oaks General Hospital. Only this time no one is here to hold her when the doctor beings with, "I'm so sorry…"

* * *

_'They're alive.'_ Devi resolutely reminds herself of this fact every other minute, to prevent herself from being consumed by grief. _'If only in the most literal sense of the word.'_

She spends every minute alternating between her mother and Kamala's bedsides, trying not to break every time she talks and her family doesn't respond. But then, the grief is loaded further by medical bills, tuition, and a school administrator saying in a obnoxiously nasally voice that three weeks leave is all they can offer her without delaying her degree. Not to mention an oily, balding banker who spends too much time staring at her chest, and after her firm reprimand of his wandering gaze takes obvious pleasure in telling her that because her mother is still "technically alive," her accounts will remain locked.

"Nalini Vishwakumar's assets will remain frozen to you until a full investigation has been completed by the authorities into the 'nature' of the car accident."

"The _nature of the accident_?!" Devi seethes, appalled by this horrible man's foul implication.

"It could take a while, of course. NYPD really is so busy these days. You could always get a lawyer to come and contest this, of course." The greasy bastard offers the falsest pitying look Devi has ever seen. "But the kind you'd need would be rather out of budget for a college student."

* * *

_("Yes, yes, love you both too. But I'm serious mom, please don't be late! Kamala, make sure she's on time, won't you? I had to make this reservation three weeks ago. The reservation is for 6 on the dot!")_

Devi jerks out of bed, sweating. She throws off the drenched bedspread and swings out of her bed. She barely makes it to the bathroom, and collapses in front of the toilet just before becoming reacquainted with her dinner. A few heaves later, and she presses her forehead to the cool ceramic, stifling her sobs.

Just because their last exchange hadn't been vitriol and invective, didn't mean Devi was okay with it being their final words.

_("I'm so sorry. Your mother and cousin are alive, but they're in a comatose state. We aren't sure when, or even if, they'll wake up.")_

She brushes her teeth four times in a row (and uses a rather unhealthy amount of mint mouthwash that she almost doesn't spit back out), before stumbling back to her room. Despite her best attempts at smothering it, bitter acid still burns her throat when she shakily sits on the edge of her bed. Unable to tolerate the soft fabric of the lavender woollen blanket that her and Kamala bought at IKEA three years ago, Devi sinks to the ground. Her back leans against the side of the iron-wrought bed frame, while her shoulder presses to a familiar night stand in an unfamiliar room.

The first thing she'd done to cut costs had been to move somewhere more affordable (read: dirt cheap). And so what if she was sharing a house with six other girls? And so what if the commute to her classes was an hour via bus and subway. She had a room to herself, at least. Even if it was technically half of a small, unfinished basement with a slightly moldy bathroom and dead-insects framing the small window above her bed.

Devi had tried for loans and lines of credit. ("Lots of people get medical school interviews," the greasy banker had cooed. "Doesn't mean much in terms of capital potential until you get the acceptance, I'm afraid.") She'd tried to find a way to contact anyone in India (only Kamala's phone was broken in the accident, her cousin deleted her facebook profile as part of her becoming a _'new her'_ after her messy break up with Prashant two years ago, and Devi's mother's phone was never found, and _shit_ she had never regretted not getting to know her family across the ocean any more than right now.) She could call El and Fab... Only El is likely even more broke than her (a theatre student and part-time barista). And even if Fab's debts were mitigated by her parents' support, no way even the Torres family had the amount of cash lying about that Devi would need for the expensive care her mother and cousin were getting.

Devi's eyes burn, her pulse thuds in her throat. She's used up all her savings. Her account currently has $42.63 despite the paycheque from her TA position having been deposited last week. The next instalment for her mother and Kamala's current medical care is due in five (now four) days, and her rent is due next week.

She reaches up to her nightstand, pulls the cool metal of her phone out of the charger in the wall, and runs her hands along the bright screen.

Devi should probably still call her best friends for emotional support, because it's not like she has anyone else in New York. (Well, other than a few acquaintances from resume-padding extra-curricular activities. Her self-inflicted isolation in order to focus on academics seemed so worth it when she received her kick-ass MCAT score and much-coveted interview offers; now she feels like she tied her own noose with her ambition.) Regardless, she knows the real reason she can't tell Fab and El about what happened...

Because they would try to talk her out of her only option.

Her tremulous fingers hover on the screen, over the name that Dr. Ryan had strongly advised she remove from her phone before she left for university.

 _'The worst that can happen is that he says no.'_ She tells herself. _'Right?'_

Before she can talk her self out of this admittedly truly terrible idea, she clicks the green call icon.

The ringback tone starts, and she shoves a fist to her mouth to bite back a sob. _'Pull yourself together!'_ She screams at herself, all while wondering if maybe he'll take more pity on her if she doesn't. Maybe if he hears her voice catch, it may keep him from hanging up the moment he remembers their last interaction.

The tone stops abruptly, signalling that the other user has picked up the call. Devi's almost relieved, because it's currently 3:42 AM in New Haven. _'Maybe he doesn't hate me as much as he swore he always would three and a half years ago, if he's picking up my call at such an ungodly hour.'_

Her voice breaks.

"Ben?"

* * *

She says she needs money. A lot of it. The kind Ben will have, because in first year undergrad, his family had apparently gone from rich to unfathomably rich after a well-placed investment in some electronic company. At least according to El, who had heard it from Oliver. At the time, Devi couldn't have given a rat's ass about anything related to Benjamin Gross ( _'that's a lie'_ ), which she explicitly reiterated to her best friends, emphasizing that her ex-classmate ( _'ex-rival, ex-friend, ex-lover'_ ) was permanently etched onto the list of banned topics for all the trio's future inter-state skype sessions. She had even forced them to delete Ben off all their social media lists for good measure, to avoid an accidental updates.

She regrets not knowing more about him now.

"I'll pay you back. I will, I swear. I just need to finish this year and graduate. Once I'm actually accepted as a medical student they'll approve me for a line of credit and-"

"I'll drive to Manhattan this afternoon," he interrupts her coolly. "Meet me at the Regis at five. We'll discuss the terms then."

"Okay," she says quietly, because what else can she say.

_('Stay away, stay away, stay away.')_

"Oh, and Devi?" A pause. "Make sure to wear something tight."

The dial tone lets her know he hung up without saying goodbye, without having made any attempt to comfort her despite her voice so clearly sounding like she had been crying. There were no condolences when she said her mother and cousin were in the hospital, no compassionate anything from him.

She places her phone back on charge, before crawling back into her bed. She buries her head into her pillow, trembling while trying to ignore the glacial way he spoke to her, and of the unsettling implication of his parting words. Where was the boy with a gentle smile and kind eyes who waited for her in Malibu?

_'He's dead. You killed him, remember?'_

Sometimes Devi really hates the truth.

* * *

That evening, she answers his proposition with a slap.

Or at least, she attempts one.

His harsh grip on her wrist stops her palm before it meets his cheek. "Silly Devi," he tuts mockingly, using his other hand to grab her second swinging fist, preventing it from hitting his stomach. Then he pulls her flush against his chest, before dragging her backwards, ignoring the way she gasps in pain when her head roughly thumps against the hotel room's wall.

His grip on her wrists tightens painfully. She can't see his face, her own being forcibly pressed into his shoulder from the front and the hard wall at her back. The misleadingly soft fabric of his green dress shirt presses against her forehead and nose. She feels the muscles in his chest clench as his head turn downwards, and freezes when she his mouth presses to the shell of her ear, murmuring against her skin. "You haven't changed at all, have you?"

 _'You have,'_ she almost accuses, but flinches instead when she feels his teeth start to scrape along her neck.

"Still as much a firecracker as you were when we were six," he smirks into her collarbone.

Devi doesn't respond verbally, she just turns her face further away from the overwhelming scent of cologne coming off his shoulder and tilts her head instead towards the wall to the right of them. In response, he drags both her arms up along the wall above her head, his right hand loosening only when his left firmly anchors both of her wrists. His free hand roams down the middle of her chest, unbuttoning her coat as he goes. The beige flaps of her autumn coat fall open, revealing a tight black clubbing dress that had been otherwise unworn since she bought it the summer after twelfth grade. She hears his breath catch, feels the hardness between legs press against her abdomen. When his hand slides back up and squeezes her left breast, she jerks and knees him between the legs.

Or, at least, she tries to. He catches her thigh with his straying hand, then shoves it back with his heavier thigh. He snorts into her neck. "Just as predictable as back then, too." Her gut clenches in discomfort, unable to fathom how he can so casually bring up their shared childhood when he's literally about to make a prostitute out of her.

A sharp tug on her hair pulls a yelp of discomfort from her, but it pales into the uneasiness of meeting his glacial gaze, pupils blown open but rimmed with blue ice. She meets his face, something she has been actively avoiding (excluding the attempted slap) since she felt him put his arm around her in the lobby, since he guided her up to the elevator in silence, since she heard the loud _click_ of the bedroom door locking. She notes the slight stubble on his jaw absentmindedly, if only to avoid his cold countenance while internally hating how much taller and broader he is now. She doesn't miss how he intentionally positions his larger mass between her and the door. _'Trapped.'_

His intense stare unnerves her, so she tries her best to be somewhere else. In the past, in her head, just somewhere that isn't going to involve her being present for what's about to happen next.

In the middle of listing the steps for Kamala's favourite _chola nadu_ recipe, she feels him drag a rough finger along her jaw. _'Calloused from piano,'_ she remembers, trying once more to vault herself away from the present. She's in the middle of reciting the notes to harp solo from _Lucia di Lammermoor_ , when he yanks her back to him by roughly pulling at her bottom lip with his thumb and forefinger. She glares.

He smirks, voice hoarse. "Still so pretty."

Then, suddenly, he steps away from her. Finally able to breathe, Devi slumps against the wall. She roughly pulls the sides of her jacket closed tight around her. _'He was pretending.'_ She breathes out a sigh of relief, trying to force herself to stop shaking. _'It was just a power play, nothing more.'_

She looks up, expecting a look of fulfilled vengeance and perverse satisfaction over having humiliated her like this. Instead, he smirks. It's a mean and dark look that twists his face into an expression Devi's never seen on him before. Ben turns, she watches his back as he descends further into the room. He stops when he reaches the king-sized bed, slowly sitting on the edge and once more facing her. He reaches into the inner pocket of his expensive blazer, and slowly pulls out a thick envelope.

Instead of handing it to her, he tosses it onto the bed beside him.

"$3000.00 for the night," he says while his distorted eyes score up and down her form. "You can start with a lap dance."

* * *

_'Duty,'_ she reminds herself, as she strips off her jacket and tensely steps towards the bed.

 _'Duty,'_ she reminds herself, as she straddles his legs and his large hands claw up her thighs.

 _'Duty,'_ she reminds herself, as he peels the thin sleeves from her shoulders and shoves his tongue down her throat.

 _'Duty,'_ she reminds herself, when skin meets skin and hips meet hips.

* * *

The next afternoon, when she's finally back in the cheap basement room on the outskirts of Brooklyn, sore from hickeys on her neck and hand-shaped bruises on her waist, she shakily sits onto the edge of her bed. She slowly slides onto the floor once more, flinches when the bed frame brushes against an especially swollen mark on her shoulder. She pulls out the envelope from her pocket, desperately clutches it between two shaking hands, but her vision is too blurry to count out the bills.

She easily catches the blue and purple on her wrists though, and the painful discolorations send her stumbling to her bathroom, the bills in the envelope left uncounted beside her bed.

She spends the night alternating between scouring her skin raw in the shower, dry heaving over the toilet, and sobbing in the corner of her room wrapped in Kamala's blanket and holding the stuffed turtle her parents had bought for her when she was eight.

* * *

The next Friday, she gets a text from his number.

It's an address in East Village, tomorrow's date, and a time.

Not even four seconds later, her phone chirps again.

_You've always looked lovely in red._

After reading his words, she just barely stops herself from flinging her phone against the floor.

* * *

She walks down the street from the subway station, arms drawn tight around herself. Only two blocks later, she steps towards the grey doors of a brick townhouse. She stands on the porch dazedly, and almost doesn't ring the doorbell. She strongly considers running back home, and burning the carmine velvet dress she's wearing. But, before she can turn back around, the door opens.

This time, he's wearing a distinctly blue Henley-type shirt with _Lux et Veritas_ embossed in white over his left breast pocket. He smoothly pulls her into the home, one hand on her waist and one tugging on her scarf, while closing the door with his foot.

He turns them so that they're side by side, his one hand still on her waist while the other stretches out in front of them in a flourish. "What do you think?" He asks, sporting an almost carefree smile that throws Devi for a loop. _'Maybe he's still as lonely as he was when they were kids?'_ Maybe he just wants company this time?

 _'Don't be naïve,'_ the voice in her head chastises.

She spends too long in her head contemplating his happy mood. His smile strains at its ends, and his hand tightens very noticeably over a bruise on her hip that still hasn't healed from last week. "I asked you a question, Devi."

"It's nice." Devi answers, because _it_ _is_. It's an elegant open concept space, the living room and kitchen tastefully decorated in a manner eerily similar to the pictures on her 'dream home' Pinterest board. There's a bookcase by the couches, and she makes her way to it in an effort to loosen Ben's hold. His grip just slides up from her hip back to her waist. She's glad he hasn't taken her coat off yet. It's not much, but its at least some form of barrier between him and her.

They reach the expensive looking oak bookcase, and she reads over the titles on the spines lining the shelf. She briefly pauses at _The_ _Handmaid's Tale_ and _Lolita_ , wondering if he had intentionally put them there to make her uncomfortable, then knows for certain he has when she sees Miller's _Tropic of Cancer_. Her entire body goes taut, fear thrumming through her veins.

She feels Ben reposition them so that her back is against his chest, one arm sprawled around her stomach while the other works at unraveling her scarf from her throat. Multi-colored paisley flutters to the ground, limp, unveiling some souvenirs from their last encounter.

Devi's complexion doesn't bruise easily at all. But for the past week she's been stuck in long sleeves and turtle necks, rotating between scarfs that end up stained with concealer. She tried to drink as little as possible, to go to the bathroom as little as possible, so she didn't have to see the ugly bite marks he left on the inside of her thighs.

" _They like it, in fact_ ," Ben quotes, his hand resting over her throat, tilting her head to the side so he can continue hissing Miller's words into the speckled curve of her neck. " _There's something perverse about women... they're all masochists at heart_."

Devi doesn't say anything, just begins mentally reciting the chords for Handel's _Passacaglia_.

But of course he pulls her back. He never lets her leave.

Both his hands tighten, squeezing a whimper of discomfort from her mouth. " _Paris is like a whore,_ " he taunts. _"From a distance she seems ravishing, you can't wait until you have her in your arms,"_ he pauses, his tone rising at the end, prompting. She tilts her head, trying to ease the pressure on her trachea, which isn't yet firm enough to choke her, but she doesn't doubt it might be soon if she doesn't play along.

" _And five minutes later you feel empty, disgusted with yourself..._ " Devi whispers hoarsely, near finishing the line, wondering if their arrangement will be the thing that finally breaks her. Before she sinks too deeply into this horror, something in her soul loudly reminds herself she isn't a puppet for his games, that she refuses to turn into this weak doll before him. _'Not again. I can play these games too,'_ she reminds herself, _'and I can win.'_ She turns her furious gaze to meet his directly when she sneers out, " _and_ _you feel tricked._ "

His grip loosens, the hand on her neck and waist drift to her arms. "You remembered." She can hear his pleased smirk, wonders if he's completely oblivious to the hate in her voice or if he just isn't bothered by it anymore. "I knew you'd remember."

 _'You made it impossible to forget,'_ Devi thinks, recalling senior year. Instead she says, "why are we here, Ben?" Of course she has a suspicion, and she's rarely wrong, but this time she _really_ hopes she is.

His hands curl over her shoulders, squeeze them through her jacket. "You'll be staying here from now on."

"There's a guest bedroom?"

"Yes. But that's not where you're sleeping."

Devi bristles, glad she can't see his face. "Our arrangement was short term only," she reminds him. _'Less than five months and two weeks until medical school acceptance offers, and then I'm never going anywhere near you again.'_

His voice sharpens, his fingers dig harshly into her arms. "And its end will be surprisingly near if you don't move your things here by the end of this week."

"New Haven is two hours away." Devi tries feebly to convince him out of this. It's one thing when she's spending a couple weekends a month with him like they had agreed on. It's another to live with him to use whenever the thought strikes him. "A bit far of a commute for you, isn't it?"

He turns her around roughly, yanking her forwards so that her chest is flush against his. "And it's a rather short commute for you, so stop being so fucking ungrateful." Devi doesn't bother meeting his gaze, still busy trying to pretend she isn't here. His words anchor her to the present. He's not entirely lying. This townhouse is literally a fifteen-minute walk to NYU's campus. Devi tries to ignore the burn in her chest she still gets when she remembers reading Princeton's rejection letter at eighteen (even if she sort of expected it, for reasons she's not going to relive just yet), but douses the flame with the knowledge that she has a second chance to don black and orange.

Of course, she also got an interview offer from Yale Med. Despite its current inhabitants (namely the one that's currently refusing to forgive her for high school), she will prepare for her New Haven interview just as avidly as the others. Because the last thing she wants is to get twelve rejections, to face the knowing grin of the oily banker withholding a line of credit from her, and worse, the resultant tightening grip of Ben Gross.

"Besides," he says, bringing both his hands to sit on her collarbones. "I'm still staying in New Haven. This place is where you stay instead of that dump in Brooklyn. I'll just come on the weekends I'm not busy there." She feels his thumbs stroke against the exposed skin of her neck, tracing and pressing into purple patches he used to brand her. "It'll be better for you here."

For a second her traitorous heart wonders if this house is his attempt at an apology. If maybe he feels guilty for what he did to her last week.

Then she feels him start to tug open up her jacket and decides that no apology could ever be enough.

* * *

_~end of chapter one~_

Thanks for giving this fic a try! If you want to read more of this twisted AU, review pretty please! :-)

* * *

**Preview of future chapters**

_"I'm sorry. For high school, for what I did."_

_"I know," he spins her hair in his hands. "You being sorry just isn't enough."_

_-x-_

_"Remember, in sophomore year. When we were in Davis for Model UN… and you called me America's sweetheart?"_

_"I did."_

_"You were America."_

_('how long have you thought of me as yours?')_

_-x-_

_"Did you really think I'd ever let you leave me again? That I wouldn't find a way to make you mine forever?"  
_

_-x-_

_"If I lost you, there'd be no saving me."_

_'You're already beyond saving. Sometimes I think I am too.'_

_-x-_

_"You're my family now."_

_-x-_

_He snorts. "I don't fall for the same thing twice."_

_"Well, you fell for me again, didn't you?"_

_His eyes darken. "I never fell out of you."_

_-x-_

_"You're just running again because your scared! Just like you always do! You love me and you're afraid-"_

_"Your own parents don't love you," she cuts him off. "How could anyone else?"_


End file.
